


Quest 05: Missing, Presumed Death

by FictionCookie



Series: Of Gods and Men [5]
Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-05 12:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20488970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionCookie/pseuds/FictionCookie
Summary: Sliske invites all of Gielinor’s returned gods to his ‘grand ascendency’, claiming godhood. Instead, he uses the platform to pit all the gods against one another in a free-for-all that threatens to tear Gielinor apart. Their incentive? The sole survivor will be awarded what every deity is desperate for - the Stone of Jas…





	1. Undying

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my full series 'Of Gods and Men', and on my page can be read in full (or as far as I've posted). I'm also posting it in smaller chunks as each 'quest' can sort of be standalone, but read as part of a wider story as well.

It was a good three weeks before things calmed down in the war hospital enough that Ozan and Jahaan were dismissed from their duties. They’d been immersed in such a chaotic environment for so long that when they suddenly stopped it was a shock to the system, and both men felt rather displaced. Since Ozan decided to go and reunite with Ariane and Coal - who he had been separated from since the war began - Jahaan thought to tag along and see if he could assist in any of the rebuilding of Lumbridge before he settled upon what to do next. That was the issue after having left the Imperial Guard - finding purpose in day-to-day life. Up until now, life had done a pretty good job of throwing him into adventure, for better or for worse. Being directionless wasn’t his strong suit.

_ I’ve always wanted to see Prifddinas for myself,  _ Jahaan toyed with the idea in his mind.  _ Though it’s the other side of the world. I can’t walk it. Fuck that noise. I’d need a teleport. Maybe Ariane could get me close… _

The two men walked through the remains of Lumbridge, pleased to see just how well the rebuilding effort was going. A lot of structures had four walls now, some of them even a sturdy looking roof. They hadn’t witnessed the destruction at the hands of the gods themselves, but if it was anything like the stories the wounded had told them, then the progress they've made in rebuilding this much was incredible.

After getting some directions from a knight, they were told Ariane would likely be found in or around the mill at the northern end of the town where the Saradominist camp had set up a base of operations. As they approached, Ozan saw Ariane alternating between hand-feeding the chickens some grain in the neighbouring field and ushering Coal away from eating the chickens whole. His face broke into a picture of happiness.

“I’m going to see Sir Tiffy,” Jahaan gave his friend a pat on his back, but Ozan was too captivated to hear him or notice the gesture. “I’ll catch up to you later.”

“Hm, what?” Ozan drawled, dreamily. “Oh, right. Catch you later.”

With that, he made for the field, and Jahaan watched him go, feeling like he was watching a romantic play in action, overdosing on the sappiness of it all. After forcing himself to stop grinning like an idiot at the sight, he made for the mill entrance.

A white knight stopped him, asking for his credentials. After giving him his name, the knight retreated inside, and moments later, a cheery old voice called out, “Come in, my boy!”

A warm grin spread across Jahaan’s face. Sir Tiffy’s voice never failed to cheer him up.

The mill seemed a lot bigger on the inside than it did outside, fitting desks, armour stands and enough of Saradomin’s top knights with room to spare. When he caught Sir Tiffy’s eye, he bowed in greeting.

“Forget that son, come here!” Sir Tiffy motioned him in for a hug. Knowing it would be rude to refuse, Jahaan forfeited his personal space long enough to allow the old knight to give him a tight squeeze, one with the amount of enthusiasm only reserved for drunk people. It was made worse by the fact the knight was wearing armour.

Finally releasing the man he was suffocating, Sir Tiffy motioned for Jahaan to sit opposite him and exclaimed, “I haven’t seen you in so long, lad! Would you like a cup of tea?”

Politely, Jahaan declined. Sir Tiffy ordered one for himself before asking, “How’s Al Kharid? It was a shame you didn’t stay and fight - we could have done with your help - but I understand, my boy.”

“It was nice to be back in the desert,” Jahaan replied, dancing past the whole ‘abandoning Saradomin’ debate that Sir Owen had brought up when he first left. “Congratulations on your victory.”

“Ah, it was marvelous! Such an honour to fight under the lord himself, what?” Sir Tiffy took the piping hot cup of tea and sipped it delicately.

“Sir, the priest has an issue with the placement of his new church,” one of the knights barged into mil, sleepless eyes that told the world he’d ‘had it up to here’ with everyone and everything. “He says that the river is too-”

That was when his eyes caught Jahaan’s, and in a flash, his sword was drawn. Instinctively, Jahaan shot up from his chair and drew his own, backing himself up into a wall. Like dominos, other knights drew their swords and pointed them at Jahaan.

_ Oh shit. He remembered. _

Sir Tiffy shot up from behind his desk. “What is the meaning of this here, what?”

“It’s him,” the knight spat. “The one that killed Sir Tenly at the Al Kharid border!”

Sir Tiffy looked heartbroken, sorrowful eyes resting upon a panic-stricken Jahaan who looked like a cornered animal. “Is it true, lad?”

“It… it happened so fast!” Jahaan felt the weight of disapproval and anger directed at him, heavier than any armour. It broke his own heart, the thought of disappointing one of his heroes. “I didn’t mean to. I just-... he just-...”

His defence was as flimsy as papyrus, and worth as much too.

“Jahaan, I didn’t take you for a… for a murderer,” Sir Tiffy choked. “When I heard about the incident, never in a lifetime would I have thought it’d be you to murder one of my boys…”

“I’m not a murderer!” Jahaan protested, but it was in vain. He knew it was too late for him.

With a long, painful sigh, Sir Tiffy announced, “I have no choice. Until this here matter is cleared up, I am arresting you in the name of Saradomin. Put down your sword, lad.”

_ Fuck that. _

Jahaan pressed himself backwards even further, the wall greeting him like an unwelcome house guest. Seeing how he was outnumbered, without armour and in the middle of Saradominist territory, he didn’t fancy his chances in a sword fight. Instead, he subtly reached into his pocket and clasped his hand around the runes Gypsy Aris had given him all that time ago, thanking the gods he’d thought to keep ahold of them.

Runes came with certain charges infused into them; for this particular spell Gypsy Aris wanted him to use, he needed two of each element, so two charges were placed into the runes. The tiny stones felt warm in his palms, buzzing with hidden energy.

Taking a deep, measured breath, he tried to calm himself and focus on the centre of East Ardougne's market square. He tried to picture all the stalls, the guards patrolling the premise, the people rushing about the place, desperate for a deal. If he had a clear enough mind and focused correctly, he should be whisked away and planted in the market square. At least, that’s what he thought. The wizards that tried to teach him teleportation didn’t really go into much detail, and honestly, he had no idea how or why it worked. So many people use it as an effective means of transportation, but magic really wasn’t Jahaan’s cup of tea. He felt more comfortable with something tangible in his hands, and while the rune stones were technically tangible, the energy and magic they exuded was far from it.

Though he knew it wasn’t ideal, and he’d be making an enemy of just about Saradominist knight for doing so, Jahaan decided upon ‘fuck it’, and tried to channel the spell.

Exhaling slowly, Jahaan concentrated so hard, focused so much on trying to block out the chaos surrounding him, until eventually he was whisked away, furious knights shouting at him in his wake.

When he opened his eyes, many people were standing over him, a lot of them laughing. He felt something very uncomfortable beneath him, jagged and sharp, but right next to it was something undeniably soft and squishy. When he managed to examine his hand, he noticed it was covered in jam.

“GER OFF ME STALL!” came a loud, bellowing voice, followed by rough hands forcing him to his feet. He tried to gather his bearings, quickly trying to shake off the wave of nausea that always accompanied his teleportation attempts.

_ Well, at least I made it to the market... _

Behind him was the collapsed remains of the cake stall he’d landed on, accompanied by the very cross looking stall owner. Guards were enclosing on him, looking equally cross.

He briefly opened his mouth to try and explain himself, then thought better of it, instead deciding to follow the philosophy that had served him vaguely well for the last couple of hours:

_ Fuck it. _

With that, he took off running, bolting out of the market square and through the smaller streets of the outskirts of East Ardougne, not even looking back to see how many guards were on his tail. Oh, he was definitely being pursued - he could hear their footsteps and panting behind him - but Jahaan had the stamina advantage, and after enough ducking weaving between side streets, he lost the guards.

Straightening himself out, Jahaan took a long gulp of water from his waterskin, caught his breath, and tried to look as non-suspicious as possible as he left through the city gates.

_ Well, that didn’t go as well as I’d hoped, _ Jahaan huffed, not dawdling around the city’s walls for more than a moment’s breath. Instead, he kept running north, wanting to put as much distance between angry guards and himself as possible.

Once he was sure he wasn’t being pursued any longer, Jahaan all but collapsed on the grass, doubled over and fighting for breath.  _ Damn, I need to work on my cardio… _

Suddenly Gypsy Aris’ vision seemed to make a lot more sense.  _ How did she know? _ Jahaan wondered,  _ And why couldn’t she have foreseen a destiny with less being chased by angry men with swords? _

Another thought popped into his head - Ozan. Word would have gotten around by now, so hopefully he’d at least know he was safe, but Jahaan decided to send a letter next time he saw Postie Pete roaming around, just in case.

Picking himself off the could and wiping dry the grass stains he’d accrued, Jahaan examined his surroundings. Well, what little there were.

Trees. Trees as far as the eye can see. The rough outline of a structure to the north-east Jahaan deduced would be the Legends’ Guild, and thus knew to stay far away from that. Seeing as the nearest civilisation (that wasn’t Ardougne) was Seers’ Village, he decided to make his way back up there, hoping they’d allow him back in the pub after the ruckus he created last time, and figure out what to do after a few drinks and decent meal inside him.

So, using the sun as a compass, he started walking.

And walking, and walking.

_ A lot of this adventuring lark really is nothing but walking. _

Then, breaking him out of his daydream-like trance he’d found himself in as he lumbered onwards, a weak voice called out from behind him, “Kind sir, please wait!” 

When Jahaan turned to the west, the origin of the cry, he saw a bloodstained monk stumbling towards him. “Please... Oh great Saradomin please help me!”

It wasn’t every day you saw a monk in such a frenzy; Jahaan’s concern peaked, and before he knew it, he was trailing after the monk, who ushered him to follow. “What's going on?”

It didn’t take long for them to reach what he was being led to - three bodies, bloodstained and lifeless, cloaked in monk’s robes. But this wasn’t like any other corpse he’d ever seen. No, these ones had a pool of grey mist floating above them, twisting and turning, weaving and bending in place. And the awful wailing they made… it sent chills down Jahaan’s spine. It looked like their souls were detached from their bodies.

“I-It all happened so fast,” the monk quavered, “Please protect me. Please! Oh no - what if they come back?!”

“It's okay, I can help you,” Jahaan softly reassured, asking, “Try to calm down. Can you tell me your name?”

“Samuel. B-Brother Samuel,” the monk introduced, his breathing slightly more collected now. “Someone... m-murdered my brothers. Th-they left me alive. Why didn't they take me and not them?”

Jahaan studied the corpses, his eyes unable to draw away from the tortured souls floating above them. “Something’s wrong with them. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“I-It only happened after their murder, I-I don't think it was the killer that caused it. They just look so tormented, like their souls cannot pass onto the afterlife…”

_ The souls will not rise…  _ Jahaan remembered the haunting words of Gypsy Aris, causing him to visibly shudder.

Not noticing this, a whimpering Brother Samuel continued, “I keep racking my brains, but it's all a blur. Damn my old age - I can't remember anything of the attacker!”

This desperately disheartened Jahaan. “Really,  _ nothing _ ?”

“I-I only saw the attacker flee in darkness, like the light had been sucked from the area! But I did not get a good look at them. P-Please, I beg of you... help me search for evidence so we can find who killed my brothers and bring them to justice.”

“Of course I’ll help you,” Jahaan assured. But then, his mind darted back to the last time some out of the blue stranger requested his assistance. Fortunately, he remembered Wahisietel’s advice, and with all the conviction he could muster, he declared, “Okay, I’ll help you, but on one condition. You have to let me touch your forehead.”

Unsurprisingly, this didn’t go down too well with the monk. “Come again?”

“I want to touch your forehead.”

“But… but why?”

“You don’t get to ask questions,” Jahaan maintained, standing firm. “It’s that or I walk.”

“...”

“...”

“O-Okay, fine!” Brother Samuel caved, awkwardly leaning forward. Like it was the most natural thing in the world - despite feeling desperately embarrassed internally - Jahaan reached out and placed two fingers between the man’s eyes, sighing with relief when he noted the normal temperature.

“Thank you,” Jahaan straightened his shoulders, trying to recollect his dignity and forget that ever happened. “Where should we start?”

Brother Samuel suggested, “I think it would be best to start by searching for clues that point to the killer. You're bound to find something in the surrounding area. Y-you should check th-the... bodies, too. I need a moment to collect my thoughts…”

Brother Samuel walked away, giving Jahaan room enough to examine the crime scene unhindered by the monk’s quivering. The poor man looked ghastly.  _ Perhaps it was his first corpse... _

As Jahaan investigated the first corpse, he noted that the monk had been impaled with several small crystals. His arms were pale, like all the blood had drained from them, and there were scrapes on his knees, as if he was kneeling before being killed.

There was a faint murmuring coming from the floating essence above the body. Leaning in closely, Jahaan could hear the tortured words,  _ “Bound… shackled… free me... mercy! Oh Saradomin, mercy…” _

Another slaughtered monk had arms that were splattered with blood, but didn’t seem to be wounded. Instead, his heart had been pierced by a sharp blade with pinpoint accuracy.

With this soul, Jahaan could only make out the words ‘Saradomin’ and ‘light’ amidst the garbled mumbling.

The last corpse had wrists and hands covered in blood, like he was desperately trying to hold his wound closed. There was only one clean wound to his heart - the work of a skilled assassin.

This soul cried out louder than the others, though its words were broken up by agonised wails.  _ “It was… the masked face… trapped me… release me, Saradomin…” _

Masked face? This did not bring joy to Jahaan’s heart; instead, a weighted sinking feeling engulfed him. Still, he had more of the crime scene to investigate.

The nearby tree caught his eye next, and arrow protruding from the split bark. Pulling it out, Jahaan examined in closely, noting its fine craftsmanship and sharp crystal tip unlike any he’d ever handled before. Then, in his peripheral vision, a shiny silver ring glimmered in the sunlight. When Jahaan picked it up, he saw it was engraved with a dialect he could not decipher, but recognised as elven.

Making his way back to Brother Samuel, who was caught in the middle of hurried prayers, sorrowful eyes staring into the sky, Jahaan called out, “Brother Samuel, I’ve had a look around. Check this out.”

Handing over the ring and arrow, Brother Samuel squinted, examining the two very closely, like he was studying a museum artifact. “Strange. Most peculiar. It could have been an elf who did this, as the ring and arrow seem to be elven craft. I just can't remember - it was all over so quickly…”

“It must be horrible, but try to focus,” Jahaan softly encouraged.

“I'm sorry. I have seen much in my many years, but I never thought to stare evil in the face as I have done today. Let me think. My only knowledge of the elves comes from tales and legends I was told as a child. I vaguely remember the tale of their goddess, Seren. She was ridden with guilt, and shattered herself into thousands of crystals to always be with her followers. But she was supposed to believe the different races could live in peace. Why would an elf want to do this to us?”

Jahaan shook his head. “It doesn’t make much sense…” he bit his tongue, deliberating internally whether to share the ‘masked face’ observation with Brother Samuel.  _ It could have just been a coincidence, a throwaway remark from a tortured soul... _

Tearing up, Brother Samuel exclaimed, “I just want to know why! Why would someone do something so horrific to innocent monks? We’re pacifists! And their souls… why can’t they leave their bodies? Why can’t they be liberated into Saradomin’s embrace?”

_ “I believe I may be of some help, mortals…” _

The voice came from all around them, and simultaneously nowhere at all. But there was something about the voice that Jahaan recognised, and his heart warmed at the comforting familiarity in amongst all of this horror. “Icthlarin, is that you?”

_ “Yes, it is I. Do not be alarmed. My arrival on the surface world is imminent…” _

Brother Samuel didn’t seem to calm down, especially since the ground started rumbling.

A crack in the ground appeared beside them, growing rapidly, tearing the earth apart. From it, glorious white light shone from the depths, so bright that Brother Samuel land Jahaan had to cover their eyes. Once the light subsided and the earth had healed, the two uncovered their eyes and saw that Icthlarin had arrived.

The canine deity stood at just under six feet tall, muscled and imposing, with sharp teeth that could cut through steel. Majestic turquoise and golden robes were draped over his shoulders and around his waist, light and infrequent enough to be suited to the desert climate. His shins and wrists were armoured in guards of the same colour, and atop his head was a two-pronged crown that couldn’t help but look like large ears. In his left hand was a long staff with what seemed to be a goblet atop; from it, green energy seeped constantly into the air.

With a warm smile, Jahaan cheered, “It’s good to see you again, Icthlarin. How’s Amascut? Any news?”

Sighing heavily, Icthlarin regretfully informed, “I am afraid my sister’s madness has not subsided. She still summons creatures to devour the souls that I strive to protect. But I have not lost hope, my friend. Neither should you.”

“Excuse me, who are you?” Brother Samuel piped up, his voice cracking slightly.

Turning to Brother Samuel, Icthlarin addressed, “Forgive my rudeness, mortal. I have yet to properly introduce myself. My name is Icthlarin, God of the Underworld.”

Now, Brother Samuel’s fear transitioned swiftly into confusion. “Umm… no, not ringing any bells.”

“Ic...Icthlarin… I guide souls to the Underworld...? I am part of the Menaphite Pantheon...?”

Brother Samuel shook his head. “No, nothing I’m afraid. Are you a new god or something?”

Icthlarin’s embarrassment turned to a mild form of indignation, though he did well to compose himself. “No, I am not a ‘new god’. I was on this planet long before your deity!”

“Then how come I’ve never heard of you?”

“I-!” clenching his first, Icthlarin took a long, deep breath, trying to shuffle off the urge to shout the priest down. “We do not have time for this. World Guardian,” he turned to Jahaan. “I had sensed many dead here, souls that passed at the hands of another.”

“Yeah, but why are they like…  _ this? _ ” Jahaan emphasised, pointing to a tortured soul, struggling to shuffle off its mortal coil.

“That I can shed some light to,” the deity informed, “The reaper of souls, whom you know as ‘Death’, has gone missing. Without his scythe, there is nothing to sever the tie between souls and their physical shells. Their souls are in limbo, shackled to these lifeless husks. I have travelled across all of Gielinor bearing witness to the same thing. I cannot help them all.”

Gasping, Brother Samuel cried, “That’s awful! Is everyone who dies trapped now?”

“Only on the realm of Gielinor. Other realms are not governed by the same principles of mortality. Death does have fail safes in place, helpers that are able to use shards from his scythe to release souls, but they are unable to keep pace with the flow of souls. I am assisting by transporting the deceased to them. But I am tired, mortal - there is much that needs my attention. I have never known Death to neglect his duties - not once in thousands of years. There is something more sinister afoot.”

“Then we need to find Death,” Jahaan asserted. With a heavy sigh, he decided to confess his suspicions to the jackal-headed deity. “I’ve an idea as to who might be behind these killings and, by extent, Death’s disappearance.”

“Who, my friend?”

Jahaan’s shoulders sagged; wincing, he said, “I believe you’re familiar with the Mahjarrat Sliske?”

“Sliske…” Icthlarin shuddered at the name. “I am all-too familiar with that particular rapscallion. This business of torturing souls does seem to fit his modus operandi.”

“That, and one of the trapped souls mentioned a ‘masked face’. Brother Samuel also said something about the attacker’s way of teleporting, where the spell absorbed light instead of emitting it, like the spellcaster-”

“...was escaping to a darker rift or dimension,” Icthlarin finished, his heart heavy.

“Pardon me,” Brother Samuel cleared his throat. “Who is this Sliske character?”

“Sliske is a Zarosian Mahjarrat,” Icthlarin solemnly explained, “He and I have a tumultuous history. Once he fought with his brethren in my armies. Then, he betrayed me and turned the Mahjarrat’s allegiance to Zaros. I wonder if he is trying to garner my attention by taking Death captive?”

“If it is indeed Sliske, then it looks like he’s trying to pit the gods against one another,” Jahaan gravely added. “Seems like Sliske’s trying to make it look like elves butchered these Saradominist monks. The crystal tip arrows are a dead giveaway to Seren’s followers.”

“As I pointed out earlier,” Brother Samuel piped up, “Seren and Saradomin have always had a peaceful relationship. There would be no reason for her followers to perform such a heinous act.”

“I agree,” Icthlarin concurred, gripping tighter onto his powerful staff. “Something eludes us still. But what is clear is that he is setting in motion dangerous events, and we cannot let him continue. I would like to ask for your help, Jahaan. You have seen the evil at work here, and have first-hand experience in dealing with Sliske.”

Humbly, Jahaan replied, “Of course. I’ll do whatever I can.”

“Thank you, my friend. Our highest priority is- wait... something is wrong.”

Icthlarin sniffed the air, his body going tense and rigid. “Prepare yourself, Jahaan. I sense the approach of the undead.”

Beneath them, the ground began to shiver and shake, eventually breaking away all together as six skeletons with flesh barely clutching onto their limbs arose from the dirt.

Drawing his two short swords, Jahaan crouched into a fighting stance. Beside him, Icthlarin’s staff glowed as he did the same. He made a motion with his hand, and then seemed very perplexed afterwards. Meanwhile, Brother Samuel cowered behind them.

Fortunately, the skeletons were just as brittle as they looked; Jahaan charged forward and slashed straight through the torso of one without breaking a sweat. Icthlarin’s staff made short work of another two, while Jahaan took out one with a decapitating strike.

The last two were felled with ease, and from the remains of one of them, a tiny box materialised.

Sheathing his weapon, a curious Jahaan picked up the box from in amongst the pile of bones. “Huh…” was all he said. It didn’t seem to have a keyhole, and when he tried to prise the lid open, it wouldn’t budge.

“Well fought, mortal,” Icthlarin praised, his staff returning to its regular state. “I am not accustomed to the undead withstanding my power.”

“Why  _ did  _ they withstand it?”

“Ordinarily I would dispatch tens of wights with a wave of my hand, but these… it seemed almost as though they were attuned to my power. Like something was protecting them,” his eye then caught the box Jahaan was holding. “What is that in your hand?”

As soon as he said that, murky grey smoke began to seep from the mysterious box, and in his shock, Jahaan dropped the box to the ground, stepping back in surprise. “Is it meant to do that?”

Gradually, the smoke began to take the shape of a mask, a typical theatre style accessory with a menacing grin plastered onto it. “Boo! Bet you didn’t see this coming.”

Icthlarin regarded to mask with apprehension. “What in the Underworld are you, creature?”

“For starters, I am no creature. I’m just a little message - or, rather, an invitation - from my master. You have the honour of being invited to the greatest event in all six ages!”

“Speak clearly, mask,” Icthlarin demanded. “Who is your master? What event do you speak of?”

“Why, the grand ascension of Sliske, of course!” the mask exclaimed, his voice full of wicked laughter.

Jahaan crinkled his brow. “Sliske’s ascension?”

Icthlarin’s shoulders sagged. “In light of recent events, the bastard must now believe he is worthy of godhood. But the treacherous snake must be mad to think I’d respond to such an invitation…” the words caught in his throat like bile.

The Mask sighed. “Poor Icthlarin. So easily frustrated by a talking box. My master believed you might react this way, but in light of a certain someone’s disappearance, we thought you might be amenable to accepting our invitation...”

Icthlarin’s eyes grew wide. “You would have the audacity to kidnap Death himself?!”

“Calm down Icky. All you need to do to save your precious Death is open this box, and you will be transported to the Empyrean Citadel. Oh, and bring the World Guardian with you. I have a feeling he won’t want to miss this either. Now, come along. My master won’t wait forever…”

With that, the smoke dissipated, and the box returned to its mundane appearance.

“The situation is apparent now,” Icthlarin’s tone was grave. “Sliske's plan is as evil and manipulative as I have come to expect from him. With Death gone, Sliske knew I would come to the surface world to deal with the trapped souls. After killing the people you see here, he predicted my arrival and left his wights to ambush me. But they were just a show of his power. The real purpose was to deliver his invitation. Kidnapping Death leaves me no choice but to attend his ascension.”

Jahaan added, “I bet he’s hatching similar schemes to force the other gods into attendance.”

“Then the situation is more dire than I first believed. To what end, I do not know. But I must go to the Citadel and release Death. Still, I cannot bring myself to trust this box.”

“If there’s one thing you can trust, it’s that you can’t trust Sliske,” Jahaan parroted Wahisietel’s wise words from the Ritual Site, biting the inside of his cheek.

“E-Excuse me…” Brother Samuel meekly raised his hand, hunched over slightly. “B-But if you do not get Death to return, does that mean my brothers will never be free?”

“Your brothers will be free,” Icthlarin assured. “I will transport them to Death’s Mansion myself. Death’s helpers are there. They will release the trapped souls from their bodies. However, if we do not find and release Death from his captor, things will never go back to normal.”

With a wave of his arm, and a low bow of his head, Icthlarin caused the bodies faded away.

Straightening his stance, Icthlarin declared. “I must go to the Citadel. It appears Sliske requests your company as well. Will you attend alongside me, World Guardian? I need an ally, and am not sure who, or what, I shall encounter upon my arrival.”

Jahaan’s stern expression allowed a wry smile to creep through. “For you? Wouldn’t miss it.”

Picking up the box again, Jahaan and Icthlarin took a good few strides away from Brother Samuel - just in case he was caught in the teleportation spell due to his close proximity - and this time, Jahaan managed to open the lid. Light attacked them, rendering their vision blank and white, but they could feel movement. Unsteady, directionless movement, but movement nonetheless.

When Jahaan managed to open his eyes, he was inside the Empyrean Citadel.


	2. Empyrean Citadel

K'ril Tsutsaroth, the demon servant of Zamorak, stood behind two of the Zamorakian Mahjarrat, Enakhra and Zemouregal. To their left, two uncomfortable avianse glared at the intruders to their citadel - after all, the Empyrean Citadel was once Armadyl’s seat of power on Gielinor. On the other side of the room, General Graardor looked irritated at the whole affair and one wrong glance away from crushing some skulls. Meanwhile, Commander Zilyana and the elf Ilfeen were locked in a tense argument. Guarding the entrance to the throne room were the six Barrows Brothers, unmoving and unblinking.

“This place is a powder keg…” Jahaan muttered to Icthlarin, taking note of just how many people here wished to see his head roll.

Nodding, Icthlarin stated, “We mustn’t waste time. Let us enter the throne room.”

Jahaan started to follow him, but then saw two figures out of the corner of his eye, loitering at the far end of the room. “Ah, actually, I have to deal with something first. I’ll meet you in there.”

Accepting this, Icthlarin approached one of the Brothers. Registering him, the six of them stepped aside, and the large throne room doors creaked upon, allowing Icthlarin passage.

Zemouregal seemed to take umbrage to this. “Now Icthlarin’s allowed in?! I’ve had enough of this - get out of my way!”

Zemouregal attempted to force his way past Guthan, but as soon as he took a forceful stride forwards, he was thrown halfway across the room. Not by Guthan, mind you. More like he was repelled by the shadows themselves, an energy force field that created a solid wall of ‘fuck you’.

A strange laugh echoed across the chamber.  _ “HAHA! Access: DENIED!” _

Picking himself off the floor, embarrassed and seething, Zemouregal shouted, “Enough of this madness! Let me in, Sliske!”

While Jahaan managed to contain his laughter, albeit barely, the rest of the room erupted into a vast range of quaint giggles to roaring, bellowing laughter. If Mahjarrat could blush, Zemouregal would have turned six shades darker by now.

The throne room of the Empyrean Citadel wasn’t large in size, but it crammed in enough decadence in such a small space to make up for it. The walls were the purest marble, white and perfect, without a single scratch on them. Cyan Rune ore bordered the marble, bridging between the patterned tiled floors and the edge of the walls, as a skirting board, if you will. A beautifully woven red carpet led from the sturdy elderwood door to the winged black and gold throne, currently vacant. There was no roof, nor glass for the windows, allowing the brilliant clear skies to pour and seep natural light among the occupants of the chamber. Two empty black bird cages flanked the throne.

Floating slightly up from the floor were stone podiums; light alone carved symbols onto the red bases of the hovering structures.

They were the symbols of the gods.

However, only half of the podiums were taken, but they were filled by the most prolific gods in Gielinor.

Saradomin, the God of Order, stood defiantly on his podium, his magnificent white armour glowing in the sunlight. A gold and diamond two tiered crown sat atop his blue-skinned head - the Crown Archival, one of the twelve Elder Artefacts. On his chest plate was printed the symbol of his religion - a four-pointed star.

His white, pupilless eyes pierced daggers through the being stood across the room.

“You claim your acts are not senseless,” he was arguing, “and yet you tried to massacre the people of Falador with an undead army!”

_ Wow, a LOT had happened after the war... _

“Oh, shut up, Saradomin. My general went rogue. Shit happens. Get over it,” Zamorak, the God of Chaos, protested, his crimson pointed wings stretching outwards. He’d clearly recovered from the aftermath of the Battle of Lumbridge - there wasn’t a wound to be seen. Divine healing, perhaps?

Saradomin scoffed. “I will not ‘get over it’. If you cannot control your own generals, what type of commander are you? I will defend my people from you at all costs.”

Armadyl, the avian God of Justice, rounded on Saradomin. His amber feathers faded into red in a calming gradient, fluttering in the breeze. “You speak as if you are a benevolent deity, Saradomin, but the violence you incite reveals your true nature, and your hypocritical ways.”

Bandos, the God of War, grunted. His large stature and green skin was covered head to toe in brown stone armour. “You need war, like Bandos. You crave war. You all do.”

At this, the imposing doors creaked open, another figure stepped through into the chamber.

Saradomin crinkled his brow, confused. “Icthlarin?”

“Damn, this dog has strayed far from his home,” Zamorak commented, a mocking overtone to his words.

“I see Sliske has managed to bend you all to his will too, then,” Icthlarin groaned, ignoring Zamorak entirely.

Bandos huffed. “Bandos thought only mightiest of gods invited. Why is little dog here?”

“I am a god, and the recipient of an invitation, same as you. We must be wary of Sliske’s plot.”

“Know your place, Icthlarin,” Saradomin warned, his chest pushed out and his head held high. “You would be a fool to believe yourself wiser than I.”

Armadyl rolled his eyes. “At least he doesn’t have your arrogance, Saradomin. I, for one, and thankful for the presence of another level head.”

Bandos growled, “You are arrogant, bird-man. And you, dog, you have the nerve to think you can warn us? Warn the mighty Bandos?!”

“Take my words as you will. It doesn’t change the fact that we all stand here, manipulated by the snake,” Icthlarin pointed out, taking his place on the podium with his symbol on it, though it was on the back row, behind the others.

Zamorak sniffed a laugh. “Please. I came because I wanted to. I wasn’t going to miss this.”

“Understandable. Like Sliske, you are of the Mahjarrat,” Icthlarin pointed out. “He knew you would come to watch another of your kind ascend. He just had to ask. It is the rest of us, I’m afraid, that have been manipulated.”

Bandos roared a mighty laugh. “You think Bandos manipulated? Amusing little dog. Sliske made promise to Bandos, and promise mean Bandos come.”

Armadyl rolled his eyes, muttering, “Ah yes, I wonder what  _ that  _ promise was…”

“Hush, bird-man. Sliske promise Bandos you would all be here. Sliske promised Bandos WAR. You will ALL fall!”

Saradomin raised his chin, sticking it out with pride and defiance that his ego commanded. “Ha! Try me. You know what I’m capable of.”

“Not capable of seeing through Sliske’s deception, though...” Armadyl noted, pointedly.

“Unless my eyes deceive me, I see you stood here the same as me, Armadyl.”

“This is my citadel!” Armadyl snapped back. “I will not stand idly by while Sliske intrudes upon the ancient home of my people!”

Zamorak turned his attention to Icthlarin. “And what about you, then? Just happy to receive an invitation, were you?”

“The snake has kidnapped Death. What is the god of the Underworld without Death?”

Zamorak laughed derisively. “Haha! So you’ve come to save your princess, huh?”

Bandos joined in on the fun. “The dog comes to fetch his bones.”

“Enough!” Icthlarin cut through their mocking, sharply. “Sliske will be enjoying this, us turning on one another. Shall we set aside our differences until this madness has come to a conclusion?”

“Icthlarin’s right,” Armadyl stepped forward. “We’ve all been summoned here for a reason. Here we stand, the most gods in a single space since The First Age. Let us focus our attention on Sliske, not squabbling like mortals.”

_ Meanwhile... _

Jahaan had noticed Azzanadra and Wahisietel among the present company and was torn on whether to approach them and potentially face the wrath of Azzanadra. The fact Wahisietel was there did help matters, for Jahaan knew he had an ally in Ali the Wise, but it still took a lot of internal encouragement to put one foot in front of the other.

_ Just… water under the bridge…  _ Jahaan tried to reassure himself, faltering as he caught Azzanadra’s eyeline.

Huffing, he concluded that there was ‘no time like the present’ and stepped close enough to greet them. “Wahisietel. Azzanadra.”

“Jahaan,” Wahisietel said the name warmly, while Azzanadra echoed it with a hint of bitterness that was ill-concealed.

Wahisietel, obviously irritated by the awkward silence that followed, nudged his Mahjarrat companion, urging a reluctant Azzanadra to speak.

Purple eyes peered down into Jahaan’s green ones. “I was disappointed by your actions in Guthix’s chamber, Jahaan. I had faith in you. I thought you would trust me over those Guthixians. However... it took some...  _ convincing… _ ” his eyes lingered on Wahisietel as he struggled to get the words out. “But I see now why you acted as you did. Zaros has not yet proven himself to you, and the Guthuxians had flooded your mind with their propaganda. I was not pleased, but I forgive you.”

He offered a hand out to Jahaan, one large enough to engulf the human’s with ease. Nevertheless, a relieved Jahaan took it gladly. “Thanks, Azzanadra. I’m sorry it all had to happen the way it did.”

“As am I, but we shall speak no more of it.”

More than content with this, Jahaan happily changed the topic. “So, did Sliske invite you?”

“He did not,” Azzanadra grumbled. “As fellow Zarosian Mahjarrat, we believed he would welcome us inside.”

Wahisietel added, “It would seem only the gods themselves were deemed worthy of invitations. These undead brothers refuse our entry.”

Azzanadra gravely remarked, “With such powerful beings gathered here, it is only a matter of time until someone breaks in…”

“...And it will take more than some of Sliske's wights to stop them,” Wahisietel finished, scanning the room with a calculated glare.

Something sparked in Jahaan’s mind, a forgotten detail Azzanadra had accidentally jogged to the forefront of his memory. “Wait, Sliske’s a Zarosian?”

“Ha.  _ ‘Was’  _ might be a more apt term…” Wahisietel grumbled. “He has always been selfish. Now he has the arrogance to claim godhood? I seriously doubt his loyalty to the Empty Lord.”

Azzanadra didn’t seem to have Wahisietel’s conviction, despite his own devotion to the Empty Lord and disdain for those who defy him, something Jahaan knew  _ first hand _ .

Thus, his rebuttal was weak and mumbled. “Sliske has his own methods Wahisietel. We do not know the extent of his loyalty…”

“I do not know why you still desire to trust him, Azzanadra,” Wahisietel shook his head, his features a picture of disappointment and worry.

Hiding his fretting well enough, Azzanadra sternly maintained, “We have no way of knowing if he is still loyal to Zaros; Sliske has always played his cards close to his chest.”

“Do you believe he has ascended to godhood?” Jahaan inquired.

“It would seem he has completed the steps to become a god,” the words didn’t come to Azzanadra easily, like he was walking on foreign soil. “But I do not believe that he has truly ascended. Not yet, that is.”

Wahisietel was quick to jump in, “What we believe is irrelevant - what we  _ know  _ is important. Sliske is not only mischievous, but he is also dangerous,” he sniffed a humourless laugh. “I'm not even sure he trusts himself.”

“Why, If it isn’t the World Guardian!”

The rough, growling voice startled Jahaan; he shot around, seeing Zemouregal was making a b-line straight towards him. Wahisietel and Azzanadra shifted their stances ever so subtly, not wanting to alert the entire room they were preparing themselves for a fight, if Zemouregal instigated one. Enakhra tailed behind him.

Taking that Zemouregal had a good foot on him, towering over Jahaan like he were an infant, it was hard not to be intimidated by the armoured Mahjarrat. After barely scraping by his last encounter with Zemouregal - it was the Mahjarrat’s pride and ego that ultimately led to his defeat - Jahaan didn’t fancy his chances on a second go-around, especially with Enakhra backing him. Even with Azzanadra and Wahisietel as back-up, if a conflict arose, who’s to say General Graardor wouldn’t muck in on the action, or Commander Zilyana wouldn’t settle an old score from Guthix’s chamber?

He knew he had a lot of enemies here, and wanted to antagonise none of them.

_ But it was oh-so tempting to rub in Zemouregal's defeat at his hands, right in front of everybody... _

“What are  _ you  _ doing here, mortal?” Zemouregal's derisively asked. “Got tired of baking pies or cutting trees, or whatever it is your kind do for fun.”

“I could ask you the same question,” Wahisietel cut Jahaan’s response off before he could say something they all would, inevitably, regret.

“We have come to deal with that  _ filthy Zarosian  _ \- Sliske - once and for all,” Zemouregal declared, sneering up at Azzanadra, making sure the insult wasn’t lost on present company. In return, Azzanadra squared up to him and countered, “I don’t see you doing a very job of getting in. Those wights of his a little too formidable for you, Zemouregal?”

Hissing a curse word coarse on Jahaan’s mortal ears, Zemouregal sized up to Azzanadra; their noses were practically touching at this point.

“Enough, Zemouregal,” Enakhra, surprisingly, was the volunteer ‘voice of reason’, cautious of the attention they were gathering from the followers of other gods. “There will be time enough for this. There are more pressing matters at hand.  _ Sliske _ ,” she spat the word like poison. “is claiming ascension? Please. Zamorak walked that path many years ago. He was worthy of the title.”

“Sliske isn’t half the Mahjarrat our master is,” Zemouregal finished, haughtily.

“Which still makes him twice the Mahjarrat you are…” Jahaan couldn’t help but mumble under his breath, earning a snicker-turned-cough from Azzanadra.  _ Oh come on, he walked RIGHT into that one… _

Zemouregal, on the other hand, did not see the funny side. “What was that, human?!”

“Enough!” Enakhra was, once again, the one to ease the icy tension of the room. Nevertheless, her frustration did seem to be catching up to her, her forehead creased like crumbled papyrus. “I can’t stand your company any longer. Sliske cannot claim godhood without us having something to say about it,” she growled, turning tail and storming off across the citadel hall. Admittedly, it wasn’t a large expanse of space, so she looked akin to a sulking child running off to grumble in the corner.

After one pronounced and threatening look to Jahaan, his steely glare reading him a death sentence, Zemouregal parted as well.

Stretching out the kinks in his neck and rolling his aching shoulders, Jahaan remarked, “I don’t think Zemouregal’s going to take it well when I’m allowed through…”

This caused Wahisietel to pause. “You have an invitation?”

“More like I’m Icthlarin’s plus one,” Jahaan surmised, figuring Sliske would have likely ascended by the time he explained the whole spiel to them. “Speaking of, I don’t think I can delay the inevitable much longer…”

Wahisietel placed a comforting hand on Jahaan’s shoulder. “Good luck in there, World Guardian.”

Azzanadra placed a large palm on Jahaan’s other shoulder, an unusual display of affection for the forbidding Mahjarrat. “You have our support.”

_ Inside the throne room... _

“...There is no place for your theory of chaos in a peaceful world,” Armadyl was stating, assertively. “Only the just will persevere.”

Zamorak challenged, “Oh for fuck’s sake, Armadyl. All you do is TALK. You never DO. I say less talking, more action.”

Bandos roared with laughter, clapping his giant hands together. The force of the shockwaves created could be felt across the room. “Yes, fight! Bandos would enjoy watching you rip pieces off each other!”

Suddenly, a voice echoed around the chamber. “Now now, children, settle down…”

The gods looked amongst themselves, high and low, before a flash of grey smoke revealed Sliske, entering with a theatrical flourish, before standing confidently in front of the throne.

Saradomin clenched his fist. “Do not presume that I won’t kill you where you stand, Sliske.”

“Indeed,” Armadyl concurred, “What if your claims of great power are no more tangible than the smoke that brought you here?”

“I thought you might say that. Well, in as many words...” Sliske rubbed his palms together, his smile spreading into a devilish grin. “So I brought a little surprise for you all. Try not to get too excited!”

With a click of his fingers, the cages beside the throne became bathed in smoke and mist. Once it ebbed away into the nothingness, two figures could be seen inside.

“To my right, the one and only… DEATH!” Sliske announced with a grand wave of his arm. “And to my left, the ferocious dragonkin… Strisath! I know, I know, I impress even myself sometimes. You may hold your applause.”

“Pah!” Bandos spat. “What makes you think your new toys will stop Bandos from crushing you?”

Armadyl piped up, “Gods, we could put an end to this lunacy right now.”

“Ah ah ah, slow down, everyone,” Sliske calmed them, taking a seat on the throne behind him. The act made Armadyl twitch. “Let us think about this. What would happen to your mortal followers if I were to kill Death itself, I wonder?”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Icthlarin barked, fire in his eyes.

“Wouldn't I?” Sliske’s eyebrows raised in challenge. “Even if that wasn’t enough to put you off, how about I release Strisath? His power has been quite formidable lately…”

Saradomin’s eyes narrowed. “Someone's been using the Stone of Jas.”

Sliske smiled, innocently. “Perhaps. Now, if any of you would like to take the risk, be my guest. Anyone? No? I thought not. Now, where were we?”

“Let Death out of the cage!” Icthlarin demanded, his fury barely containable, and he was barely able to hold himself back, until the creaking of the large door snapped his mind back into sanity.

Jahaan strode through the large doorway into the marble chamber, his eyes briefly clocking and noting down the present gods before his eyes fell upon Sliske.

“Well well, the guest of honour has arrived,” Sliske drawled. “You’re late.”

Icthlarin nodded to him, a small smile of relief breaking up his features. “Welcome, friend.”

Bandos, instead, was incredulous. “What is this pathetic human doing here?”

“He is the infamous World Guardian,” Sliske explained. “What’s the matter, Bandos? Jealous?”

Jahaan held his chin high as he walked further down the red carpet, settling himself between two of the god’s podiums, a smile dancing on his lips.

Zamorak scoffed. “And how did  _ you  _ get an invitation? Make one in an arts and crafts class?”

“He has more right to be here than you, weakling,” Saradomin countered, his eyes flashing with an open challenge. Before Zamorak could accept - which he would have gladly done - Sliske cut in, “Moving on! You are just in time for the main event: my ascension into godhood! Are you all sitting comfortably?”

Zamorak’s patience was wearing thin. “Get on with it then, charlatan!”

Sliske could only laugh. “Ooo feisty! ‘Charlatan’, he says, coming from the usurper and backstabber himself. I’ll let it slide - I can see you’re all desperate to know what this is about. You see, I happened across a couple of artifacts… of the Elder variety.”

Armadyl was quick to vocalize, “The Elder God Artefacts are not mere playthings for your amusement, Sliske. They are incredibly dangerous!”

“Yes, yes. You’d only need to ask a certain deceased god to figure that out. Oh, sorry - too soon? Ah, but I have not only managed to acquire your staff, Armadyl, but also... the Stone of Jas.”

“Bullshit!” Zamorak spat. “There is no proof you have the Stone!”

Sliske replied with a coy smirk, “You think I just go around kidnapping dragonkin for fun?”

Said dragonkin, Strisath, barked, “Arg! You will pay for this, False User!”

“Angry little darling, isn’t he?” Sliske chuckled, regarding the caged dragonkin with amusement.

Saradomin’s eyes narrowed. “You are not worthy of the power the Stone possesses, Sliske. It could be used to remove all the gods from Gielinor, as Guthix once did.”

“Then you better be careful, eh Sara?”

Armadyl shook his head. “Need I remind you, Sliske, that as your own power increases, as does the power of the dragonkin. The monstrous creatures obliterated the planet neighbouring my homeworld. The longer you play with fire, Sliske, the longer they will burn you for it.”

Jahaan regarded the increasingly rageful dragonkin with trepidation, only taking mild comfort from the fact there were two gods closer to it than he was. Gulping down his fear, he turned back to Sliske and asked, “How did you capture the dragonkin, anyway? And the Staff… how’d you get your hands on it?”

Sliske clapped his hands together with glee. “Now, this really was quite clever of me. See, dragonkin are awfully predictable as a species. It didn’t take much for me to lure Strisath into the Shadow Realm. In he came, charging like a big scaly canine, and what does he bring with him? Why, the Staff of Armadyl! I couldn’t believe my luck! He was its guard at the time, and I suppose he couldn’t leave it unattended when he came after me, but still… a bit daft, wasn’t it Strisath? Not only did he trap himself in the Shadow Realm, he brought the Staff straight to me.”

“The Staff isn’t yours, you scoundrel,” Armadyl spat. “The clue is in the title - the Staff belongs to ME.”

“Oh, give it a rest, you little bird,” Bandos cut in, “You are weak. The Staff should belong to Bandos.”

Ignoring the two bickering Gods arguing over his head, Jahaan said, “I helped with this intricate teleportation… thing… to get rid of the Stone. How did  _ you _ find it?”

“Oh, yes - an ingenious plan of yours, I must say, the way you disposed of the Stone. It took an even more ingenious plan to outplay you there. I wish I could take credit for it, but I had a little help. See, I've been told that the Staff of Armadyl is an extremely versatile tool. With Strisath imprisoned, I used the Staff to reveal his connection to the Stone, guiding me towards it. Annoyingly, it was frozen in ice beneath the Temple of the Lost Ancients. To say it wasn't easy to retrieve it is putting it mildly.”

Jahaan was still hung up on this ‘'little help’ Sliske spoke of, but before he could question him, an agitated Icthlarin spoke up, “You brought us here for your ascension. Have you achieved godhood or not?”

“Ahaha! You really believe I brought you here so you could have answers? No, no, no - there will be no ascendancy today. That might have been a little white lie, a ruse to get you all here. It's time for the  _ real _ announcement: I am holding a contest. A free-for-all, you might say. A battle of the gods!”

Zamorak scoffed and shook his head. “This is ridiculous, even for you, and the bar is LOW.”

Saradomin added, “If you think we will be a part of your games, you have truly lost your mind, Sliske.”

“You really are no fun at all, are you Saradomin?” Sliske frowned. “It's not so much a game - more survival of the fittest. There is only one rule, you see. It is not long now until our moon - Zanaris - passes the sun, resulting in a total eclipse. Gielinor will be engulfed in shadow. It is at this exact moment the contest will end… and the winner will be the person who has killed the most gods.”

Bandos’ face morphed into something resembling a grin, one full of bloodlust and anticipation. “Haha! Finally you say something interesting!”

Saradomin cut him down, “Be quiet and let the intellectuals talk, you brute.”

Armadyl rounded on Sliske. “Why would any of us listen to you, you madman?”

“Because, Armadyl, there’s a prize. One little prize I think you all might be interested in. When the sun is eclipsed and most of you are defeated, to the one that stands victorious I will gift… the Stone of Jas.”

Instantly, the gods were in uproar, cursing and speaking over one another in a frenzy.

“This is ludicrous!”

“This will cause an all-out war between the gods, like the ones seen in the Third Age!”

“You’re insane, Sliske!”

“Don’t believe a word that comes out of this rogue’s mouth!”

“Do you have any idea what this will do to the world? To all of us?!” Saradomin exclaimed, his fists clenching in tight balls.

“What's the matter? Scared Bandos will crush you?” Sliske taunted, menacingly. “Maybe you should be more tactical, you know? Pick off the weaker gods first…” he then turned his attention to Jahaan, who had been rather quiet in the foray. “And what about our honourable guest? How do you feel about this, World Guardian?”

With a deep breath and courage he was only half sure he had, given the present company, Jahaan pronounced, “Icthlarin’s right. We shouldn't trust a word out of Sliske’s mouth. He’s just going to deceive us again.”

“The mortal is correct,” Armadyl declared. “We must not listen to Sliske. We must seek peace through justice.”

“Shut your beak, coward,” Bandos snarled. “Bandos can smell fear. All of you will fall before the mighty war god Bandos!”

“Even if you have become a god, Sliske, you are merely a fledgling,” Saradomin was quick to point out. “You do not have the right to enforce this!”

“Silence!” Sliske cried, rising from the throne with a start. “This petty arguing is becoming irritating. If you won't do it, then I'll kick things off myself…”

Suddenly, Sliske threw a charge of dark energy at Icthlarin, who from the force of the blast was knocked off his podium and to the ground. Before Jahaan could register what was happening, Sliske tossed the key to Death’s cage at him and, with a malicious glint in his eyes, unlocked the dragonkin’s cage.

“Ta-ta!” Sliske cheered before teleporting away, just as the dragonkin lunged for him.

In a manic fury, Strisath reared onto his hind legs, his dagger-like teeth glinting in the sunlight. With a mighty roar, he inhaled deeply and breathed out a scolding stream of fire at Icthlarin. Fortunately, the demigod managed to stumble to his feet in time and shield himself and Jahaan behind a green barrier of energy.

“Why did he give you the key?!” Icthlarin asked in crazed confusion, struggling under the weight of the dragonkin’s fire.

“I don’t know!” Jahaan cried in response.

Strisath then turned his attention to the other gods, sending fire around the room without prejudice, causing the gods to teleport away from the dangerous dragonkin.

Just as another fireball was sent his way, Icthlarin urged. “Go and release Death. I don’t know how long I can hold this barrier…”

With a firm nod of his head, Jahaan made towards to cage. But without the other gods for distraction, Strisath focused his fire on Jahaan. The young man dove to the ground just as a fireball careered over his head, crumbling the marble pillar it came into contact with. To give him the chance he needed to release Death, Icthlarin threw small, irritating bolts of energy at Strisath, just to hold his focus long enough for Jahaan to unlock the cage containing Death.

When he did, Death and Jahaan hurried back behind the protection of Icthlarin’s shield, but the demigod was struggling. “I don’t think I can hold it!”

Once the next fireball hit, the shield crumbled and Icthlarin fell to the ground, panting and gasping for air. He looked up at Death, who used a blue ball of energy to bring forth his Scythe and, just as the next fireball was released towards them, he teleported himself, Icthlarin and Jahaan away.

They returned close to the spot Icthlarin and Jahaan had departed from, Brother Samuel close by. He had acquired a shovel, likely from one of the many tool leprechauns tending to nearby farming patches, and had dug three graves to bury the corpses. A few flowers torn from around the area were placed on top of each mound.

When he saw the return of Jahaan, Icthlarin and Death, he hurried over to them.

“You’re back!” he exclaimed. “Did you bring this Sliske character to justice? And OH-” he regarded Death with the same look a child gives an ogre. “U-Um, hello? You must be Death.”

“Greetings, mortal,” Death addressed. “I am sorry for the loss of your brothers. They are safe in my domain now, and shall rest in peace.”

“Thank you,” Brother Samuel relaxed slightly. “And this Sliske?”

Jahaan regretfully informed, “I’m afraid it wasn’t as easy as that. He had many bargaining chips, to put it simply.”

“But… but he’s a murderer…” Brother Samuel whimpered, his downcast eyes falling upon the graves of his comrades.

It was Icthlarin who put a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder, saying, “Do not fear, mortal. He  _ will  _ be brought to justice. You have my word.”

There was always a gravitas inside Icthlarin’s tone, a voice you could trust with both a promise and a threat, and he spoke both inside his words to Brother Samuel.

“Thank you, Iccy-larin,” Brother Samuel attempted; Icthlarin bit his tongue, deciding it wasn’t the right moment to correct the man. “And thank you all - I am eternally grateful. But now, I will continue my journey onwards now that I know the souls of my brothers are safe. I must inform their loved ones. Farewell.”

After saying their goodbyes, Brother Samuel departed north, carrying the backpacks of his fallen brothers alongside his own.

Death, standing almost two feet above them both, looked down upon Jahaan and Icthlarin and said, “My absence will have consequences. I have to return to my duties; there is an abundance of souls to be reaped. Thank you, my friends. Without you, I may have never escaped.”

“Farewell, Harold,” Icthlarin waved as Death used his scythe to teleport away.

_ Harold? _ Jahaan tried not to chuckle, instead asking, “So what will you do now, Icthlarin?”

“There is much work to be done. I have duties to attend to in the Underworld. However, we must be cautious. Gods will fall in the coming days. The Stone of Jas is too powerful to be ignored. Some may fight, some may go for Sliske, some may employ other tactics. But everyone will want the Stone. We could be facing the start of the next God Wars. Even mortals may try to win the Stone,” he put a hand on Jahaan’s shoulder, and using that same solid tone he used on Brother Samuel, said, “Make no mistake, my friend. These are grave times, and we all have a part to play. Clearly Sliske has taken an interest in you. As a World Guardian, your choices could decide the fates of the gods themselves. This is the most pivotal event to have occurred for thousands of years. The consequences will shape a new future.”

Jahaan let out a shaky breath. “No pressure then.”

“I have one last thing to discuss with you before we part ways,” Icthlarin said. “When a person’s life on Gielinor comes to an end, their soul enters my domain. There, I guide them to the afterlife of the deity they worshipped in life.”

“But what about those that are godless?” Jahaan queried. “Where do they go?”

Icthlarin explained, “For those souls, I meet them at the bridge over the River Noumenon, and ask them to decide. They can choose in that moment to cross into the afterlife of a deity they have at least some tangible connection to. Another option is to live on in death, acting as my helpers, to protect souls from The Devourer as I guide them to the afterlife. Otherwise… they cease to be.”

Jahaan furrowed his brow, warily asking, “What do you mean, ‘cease to be’?”

With a hint of trouble in his eyes, Icthlarin continued, “If a soul does not decide upon a destination, I cannot compel it to an afterlife against its will. The Devourer will claim those souls, their existence erased from the Underworld.”

Shaking his head, trying to comprehend this information, Jahaan said, “Okay, but… why are you telling  _ me  _ all this? Why now?”

“You aided me in rescuing Death,” Icthlarin replied, “In return, I thought I would inform you of this, and tell you that, as of now, you have no set destination in the afterlife. While I do not know when you shall pass - that knowledge only resides with the Reaper - I wanted to allow you the opportunity to contemplate your fate, instead of deciding at the last possible moment, as so many poor souls have to do.”

Understanding now, Jahaan smiled warmly and gave the jackal-headed deity a small, humble bow. “Thanks, Icthlarin.”

It was hard to tell due to the nature of his features, but Icthlarin appeared to be smiling back before saying, “Now, I have my duties to attend to in the Underworld. I hope we meet again in this life, my friend.”

Jahaan watched him go with a sigh.  _ Now what? _

Readjusting his backpack, making it slightly more comfortable on his shoulders, he just started walking, but west this time.

_ Perhaps I will try and walk to Prifddinas, _ he mused, his pace an amble, not a march.

But what Jahaan didn't realise was that, as he ambled on, the world was falling apart behind him.


	3. Bird of Prey

God emissaries had taken up residence in some of Gielinor’s major cities, preaching to anyone that would listen about why their deity should be worshipped above all else. As one would expect, this didn’t go down too well in some places, especially when you had Saradominist followers preaching in Oo’glog (a Bandosian stronghold), or Zamorakians having the nerve to try and preach in Falador, something the Saradominists had outlawed many years ago. So alongside this supposed ‘undead army’ that came and went, Falador also had an invasion by the black knights to deal with.

Now that the gods had returned, people thought they had the right to excuse despicable, discriminatory behavior, all in the name of religion. The old vampire of Draynor was ousted from his home by a pitchforked mob, accused of being a Zamorakian. In reality, he didn’t worship any deity, and any claims of bloodsucking were entirely made up - he loathed the stuff, preferring to drink milk. Saradomin had pretty much laid claim to all human settlements on Gielinor, save for Taverley and Burthorpe, who remained stoutly Guthixian. No-one else preached there - it was still too soon.

The Dark Wizards Tower had come under attack from their Saradominist counterparts. In return, the Saradominist temple on the outskirts of Morytania came under siege. Some of the ogres that settled near Yanille - who had been keeping to themselves for the better part of a decade - crashed through the city’s gates one sunrise. Meanwhile, in the Kharidian Desert, the bandits in their encampment had started kicking up more of a ruckus than normal; they were one of the few concentrated pockets of Zarosian followers,  _ and they decided to let everybody know. _

Gods help anyone who tried to preach on Karamja. Those people were set in their ways, and will kindly introduce you to their friend ‘poisoned spear’ if you dare tell them otherwise.

The peace that had been formed since the end of the God Wars was starting to crumble, and Gielinor was suffering for it.

The worst case of god clashing came in the form of the direct confrontation of two of Gielinor’s major deities: Armadyl and Bados.

Armadyl, the avian god of justice, was the patron deity of the aviantese, a race of birdlike creatures from Abbinah, to which he also belonged. Unfortunately, the God Wars destroyed most of the aviantese. Because of this, Armadyl left Gielinor at the end of the wars to roam the cosmos, mourning his lost kin.

The Armadylean holy book was rarely known beyond the avianse or dedicated religious scholars of Gielinor. Much of it was written by Armadyl himself, and split into two testaments - the First, written during his time on Abbinah and Gielinor, and the Latter, compiled after the God Wars - written in the form of a journal - as he travelled from world to world, always searching, never resting.

One of the extracts that showed Armadyl’s journey back to his home world of Abbinah is most beloved among the avianse; it is right before their deity returned, reborn, and taking upon the aspect of a phoenix that rose from the ashes…

_ “I arrived on this world several sunsets ago. This is a desolate place: the ground is grey dust in all directions; it is cold and light is scarce. I taste the air and know my people could never have survived here. It is a fitting place for me to stay, for a time. _

_ I walk as I write. My wings trail in the dust, a zigzag record of my time here, and my thoughts turn to legacy. There is nothing of me on Gielinor: my aviansie are dead, my Staff has been lost. In time, they will forget me. There is something reassuring about that. _

_ A bright light catches my eye, far to the west. I fly to it. It is nothing but a meteorite, smoking in a crater. This world's similarity to the wilderness of Forinthry is inescapable. _

_ There is no land on this world, just wind, water and waves. Nothing stays still. The chaos of it all deafens me. I hunger for peace, stability, growth; so - upon my arrival - I froze water and made an island. A migrating bird still needs a perch. _

_ To pass the time, I flew on the crosswinds and tried to forget my troubles. I remembered that my aviansie would fly about me as I soared, playfully mimicking my every move. _

_ I know now that I cannot - should not - forget… no matter how much I may wish it. _

_ It seems there is no life on this world. I can see the seeds of life, but not life itself. I feel myself reaching for my Staff, to give those seeds a spark of energy, a push to catalyse their efforts… _

_ But it is gone. _

_ I have wasted enough time here. _

_ The sky is a boiling mass of noxious gas, and the ground seems to be melting. But - by the Elder Gods - there's life here! _

_ I headed southwards, until everything grew colder. I saw what looked like dark stones, fused to the ground. I attempted to move one, and to my surprise it moved itself! These were not stones, but small, shelled creatures. Sharp legs shot out in an attempt to repel me. _

_ I have taken to studying them. Weather, temperatures and tectonics conspiring against them, but they hold firm, clustered in their shells. They survive and endure, again and again.  _

_ I must continue my solitary pilgrimage. _

_ The air here is toxic; hard, unrelenting gravity pulls me downwards, and even I must struggle to remain aloft. The world is gas, with no ground to stand on. And yet, this world is a paradise for the beings native to its atmosphere: tiny creatures, the biggest no larger than a wasp or beetle.  _

_ They circle around me. At first, I thought they wanted to hide in the down of my feathers. But when I turned, they turned. When I stopped, they stopped. _

_ They were mimicking and playing. _

_ I feel my old strength - enough to make the journey back to my home. In the hollows of my bones I know that it is time to return, and to shelter my faithful beneath my wings once more.” _

It was Bandos who the winged deity clashed with the most.

Bandos was a very powerful, manipulative and bloodthirsty entity, known for taking pleasure in conflict and slaughter. He demanded worship and unquestioned obedience. His followers' main trait is strength, generally at the cost of intelligence, making them valuable warriors who would listen to him blindly. He did not usually care if most of his armies were wiped out - he fought solely for the sake of battle and would enjoy the bloodshed, provided that he retained enough troops to fight for him. But do not let his bulking size and monosyllabic dialect fool you - his cunning and battle prowess is second to none.

There was no such thing as a physical Bandosian holy book; those of intelligence were accused of being defiers of the War God, thus very few of Bandos’ followers could read or write. However, tales of Bandos, alongside his preachings, philosophies and beliefs, had been passed down verbally for generations, naturally altering throughout time, as all tales do.

One tale, however, managed to keep quite consistent throughout its history: it was the story of Bandos’ reign over Yu'biusk.

The hobgoblins of the Thrasghdak tribe built a statue of Bandos, higher than their tallest building. Bandos loathed the statue, declaring the only craftsmanship he admired was that of fine weaponry. He ordered the statue to be torn down, and said that the craftsman must use their skills and resources to create weapons and armour.

He said if they did this, they would be the greatest tribe of Yu'biusk.

The orks of the Verotark tribe built smaller, more humble statues, all across their city. Seeing this, Bandos pointed to the Thrasghdak, saying how their statue was magnificent, like a second sun… but he said they had torn it down in defiance, had erected secret workshops to craft weapons not for him, but to fight against his righteous rule! He ordered them to gather their tribe for battle, and destroy the Thrasghdak tribe. Men, women, children and the elderly… there was to be no mercy for any of them.

He said if they did this, they would be the greatest tribe of Yu'biusk.

The ogres of the Azkragthog tribe waited until the Verotark returned weak from battle, and obliterated them. They didn’t destroy any weapons they came across - instead, they used them for battle to aid in their conquest. There was no statue, no ballad, no ceremony of worship. This greatly pleased Bandos. He ordered them to build more weapons and use them to conquer the tribes beyond the mountains and beyond the oceans.

He said if they did this, they would be the greatest tribe of Yu'biusk.

To the ourgs of the Goltholglor tribe, Bandos ordered that they stand and fight against the armies of the Azkragthog that were bearing down on their cities. He gave them the same weapons as the Azkragthog - a fighting chance - but instead of defending themselves, the Goltholglor tribe sent diplomats to plead for peace. The wise ones of the Goltholglor tribe said that to go on using the new weapons would be the end to all life in Yu'biusk. Bandos decried them as cowards who wished to corrupt the true followers of Bandos. He decreed that if anyone preached against war, they were to be put to the sword.

He said that the last tribe to survive would be greater tribe in Yu'biusk.

Armadyl’s followers had been seen preaching in a camp north of Falador and, for some reason, it was Bandos who took umbrage at this. Then again, Bandos would take umbrage against the sky for any rain that fell on him. The camp was located on the merchant’s road between Taverley and Falador; Armadyl had very few human followers and no territory on the ground to call him own, so his emissaries had taken to setting themselves up where they could. Now, granted, the camp was a  _ little  _ close to the Goblin Village, the largest settlement of goblins in all of Gielinor and, naturally, Bandosian. Then again, it was also in a large expanse of Saradominist territory, and he didn’t seem to mind. It’s debatable if he even knew, let alone cared.

A terrifying rumble, like the roars of ungodly thunder, shook the area around the encampment, so vicious that it knocked over trees and caused an avalanche on the nearby mountain. From the dark grey skies, Bandos appeared, towering twice as high as the walls of Taverley. He loomed down on the helpless Armadyleans below, a malicious smirk cracking through his dark green features, before he crashed down a giant foot onto them and squashed them into the dirt below, like insects.

Armadyl… did not take too kindly to that. As soon as word reached him, he materialised and - reminiscent to the battle between Zamorak and Saradomin - camps were erected, armies were gathered (with Saradominists aiding the Armadyleans once they heard the news), and the war commenced. This time, divine energy was being gathered to help empower large weapons of mass destruction both sides were constructing. 

Despite this, Bandos occasionally took to snatching up a handful of goblins and lobbing them across the battlefield at Armadyl.

Armadyl remained on his perch, his tactics much less crude. At least this time the battle did not take place in the middle of a major human settlement; no evacuations were necessary, taking place in the sizable area north of Falador and east of Taverley. The battle also only lasted six weeks, still with heavy casualties on either side, but like the previous clashing of Saradomin and Zamorak, it ended as suddenly as it began.

The catapult-like weapon Armadyl had been constructing, which he’d dubbed ‘The Divine Focus’, simmered with barely contained energy. The avianse deity looked oh-so satisfied as he shot a cannonball-sized orb of power across the skies, straight towards an enraged Bandos. He ordered his weapon - far weaker in comparison - to be fired in retaliation, but his armies were too slow.

The orb crashed down, smashing through Bandos’ fortifications, scattering his armies… and decapitating the Big High War God. Flying over to the corpse, Armadyl set himself down beside Bandos’ remains, a cold and unfeeling look in his thin eyes. He then took Bandos’ own mace, very heavy in his grasp, and held it aloft, before driving it down and through the deceased god’s skull. His head was crushed and split into fragments, his brain leaking from the remains.

Armadyl did not look happy, but he looked relieved; he’d set out what he’d resolved to do, and that was to remove the threat of Bandos from Gielinor.

With a squawking war-cry to the heavens, Armadyl held the mace aloft and teleported from the battlefield.

From the remains of Bandos’ fortifications, some of the soldiers began erecting shrines to their new deity, Armadyl. After all, it was Bandos who taught them that only the weak died, and only the strongest deserved worship.


	4. Love Bites

Jahaan stopped off in a small town south of the Tree Gnome Stronghold. The Stronghold was a planned pit-stop of his way to Prifddinas as it wasn’t too far off course, and he wanted to visit a couple of old friends from back when he aided in saving their sacred spirit trees from extinction. Secretly, he was hoping they’d glider him all the way to Prifddinas, but their policy of ferrying outsiders was very strict, despite his service to their race.

The town was rather nondescript, leaning towards the dismal side of things; Jahaan didn’t even know it’s name. At least it had a bank, so Jahaan could gather his weapons, armour and other equipment - things he didn’t like being apart from for too long. The armour was like a second skin by now. The locals weren’t exactly friendly, and most seemed rather disgruntled to be approached, but after asking around long enough, he gathered there was a pub he could get some dinner at, and just down the pathway was a hostel he could rent a room at. Deciding the room was most important to secure, he opted to go there first, and was relieved when they had just one room spare for that night.

Up the narrow staircase and last door on the left, he was told. Creaking the battered wooden door open, he took in his temporary lodging with a bite of his lip. Well, could be worse.

The room wasn’t small, but it clearly hadn’t been dusted since before Jahaan had been born. He hoped the changing of the bed linen was more frequent than the routine cleaning. Still, it had a quaint little ornaments cabinet, full of worthless trinkets, and shelves that housed much of the same tat. Someone was trying to go for a ‘homey’ feel in the heart of this drab town. It sort of worked.

Taking off his armour, he stretched out the creases in his back and shoulders, wishing for there to be a masseuse in the town, though doubtful there would be. He tucked it away inside the oak wardrobe, trying not to dent the fragile wood as he did so, before resting his bow and arrow quiver against the door if it, alongside his two shortswords.

The rune dagger, naturally, he tucked back into the holster in the back of his trousers. It’d become like another limb; wherever he went, he couldn’t be apart from it. It provided constant security, something that greatly comforted Jahaan.

First impressions didn't exactly leave Jahaan feeling comfortable in the surroundings. Glancing up at the old-style sign, chipped and scratched all over, he confirmed this was indeed The Red Flag that had been recommended to him, though some of the letters were too faded to make out. As he stepped toward the thick wooden door with dents in it, splintered no doubt from somebody's body or fist, two burly men stumbled out and would have careered straight into him blindly if he hadn't nimbly slipped out of the way. Watching them stroll off, his hand instinctively slid to the back of his trousers where he kept the small blade sheathed. A part of Jahaan considered trying to find somewhere else open at this hour, but the rumbling in his stomach ordered otherwise.

Taking a deep breath, he braced himself and entered the bar.

The place was unbelievably crowded, full to the brim with the local residents avidly spending their time and money at the crucible of the town. The counter was lined with roars of laughter and engrossed, slurred chatter, each customer at least two watered-down drinks to their name. Jahaan could barely hear herself think over the pounding noise. On top of that, sight was strained as the air was musky and thick with pipe smoke.

Suddenly, there was a clatter of glass, followed by a stream of profanities and sounds of a nearby fight. Snapping his head to the left, Jahaan noticed the darts game had quickly changed into a grappling contest involving half a dozen men. Some were trying to pull them apart, others were cheering them on. The rest of the bar casually glanced over at the commotion, then turned back to their drinks, apparently considering this the norm.

Sniffing a silent laugh to himself, Jahaan edged to an unoccupied corner of the bar. Catching the bartender's eye was enough to flag him over.

Three ales and a portion of lukewarm cod and chips later, Jahaan was finally starting to enjoy the place. The clattering had morphed into an almost comfortable white noise, and the beer helped buff up his courage slightly, just in case a brawl broke out in his vicinity.

“You seem to be running a little low there. Like a top up?” the voice came from a man who took up the bar stool next to him. Eyeing him up, Jahaan noted he didn’t look as gruff as the other locals. He was slightly better dressed, at least, a black jacket covering up a clean white shirt, buttoned all the way up to the top, save for the button around his collar. He was clean shaven too, his dusty brown hair the most unkempt thing about him. Almost as if he knew this, the man ran a hand through his hair, trying to straighten it out.

Peering into his glass, Jahaan didn't realise it was empty until now. "Sure, I wouldn't say no." 

"That's the spirit!" the man turned to the bartender. "Two of whatever my friend is drinking."

After receiving his order, the man slid one glass across to Jahaan and remarked, “I didn't quite catch your name."

Jahaan took a sip of his drink, savouring the bitter ale on his tongue. "It's Jahaan. Yours?" 

"Please to meet you, Jahaan," the man held his glass up. "The name's Charles."

Jahaan met the glass with a *clink*, drinking in cheers. "You’re not from around here, are you Charles?"

“What gave me away?” the man smirked. "True, I’m just passing through, but I like to think I'm from all over, really. What about you? Where do you call home?" 

"I don't, exactly. I guess I'm much the same as you in that respect."

Charles raised his glass in another cheers motion. "Here's to wanderers and travelers. And good ale."

Grinning, Jahaan replied, "I'll drink to that." 

Actually, they drank to a whole lot more that evening. 

It didn’t take long before they moved onto something stronger than the cheap ale they’d been guzzling down beforehand. True, it was a lot more expensive, but it tasted  _ good _ .

And with the more liquor the pair drank, the closer Charles became to Jahaan, and the latter had noticed. It was the occasional hand lingering on his arm, the half-lidded gazes, the extra laughs to his not-all-that-funny-if-he’s-being-honest jokes.

This time though, Jahaan wasn’t so blinkered. He’d gathered early on that this man wasn’t ‘Charles’, a random well-dressed stranger in a random dive of a bar.

This time, he was going to use the situation to his advantage.

Doing so was easier said than done though. He had to get the man to trust him back, to follow along to his ruse, and that involved returning Charles’ unsubtle advances. But it was all rather unfamiliar territory to him. At least, when you compared him with someone like Ozan, who took his nickname of ‘the most prolific lover in all of the Kharidian Lands’ very seriously, and lived up to it in full. Ariane was the only woman he’d ever stuck around for.

Jahaan, on the other hand, was rather… inexperienced. Inexperienced, as in,  _ not experienced _ .

At all.

He wasn't much of a flirt, and could count on one hand the amount of people he'd kissed in his life. The whole ordeal just wasn't his cup of tea.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was his suspicions. Something pulled him forwards, and so it ended up being Ozan that he channeled when he leaned forward on his stool, tilted his head and formed a coy little smile. A gentle hand brushed the man's fringe from his eyes, and his forehead was warm to the touch. Hot, in fact. Radiating heat. 

Jahaan forced himself not to flinch backwards, to swallow his reservations and softly cup Charles’ chin. 

_ If I'm right, it'll be worth it.  _

“I think I've had one too many,” Jahaan looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, making sure his words were slurred. “I might need some help getting to my lodging …”

The man's smile grew, and he got up from his stool, motioning for Jahaan to lead the way. When he got to his feet, Jahaan legitimately staggered and swayed few steps as the alcohol caught up to him. It didn't take long for him to right himself though, and the pair made their way into the warm night.

The two walked in comfortable silence for most of the short journey, occasionally exchanging glances with one another that said everything that needed to be spoken. When the man linked his fingers with Jahaan's, his breath caught in his throat, but he fought to stay composed and on track.

_ Stay focused, _ he reminded himself, stroking his thumb over the man's soft skin. It seemed like the most natural thing to do.

Too natural. Too comfortable.

Jahaan led them up the narrow staircase and through the last door on the left, as he’d been told.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Charles commented, admiring the view from the scratched window.

Without a whisper or a sound, Jahaan slipped behind Charles. He wrapped one hand around the man’s waist and held the thin blade against his neck. Instantly, the man stiffened, tensing his muscles. With a nervous chuckle, he remarked, “So, this is a fancy of yours? A little warning would have been appreciated...”

Before replying, Jahaan tightened his grip around the man and held the dagger a little closer to the thin skin of his jugular, allowing it to bite there. Leaning closer into his ear, he hissed, “I know it’s you,  _ snake… _ ”

There was a long, uncertain pause. 

Jahaan couldn’t see his face, but if he could, he would have seen a thin, unnerving smile break out. Relaxing his tensed muscles, he tilted his head to the side, allowing him to peer behind him as much as the blade predicament allowed. “Took you long enough. And here I thought we might get to know each other a little better.”

The low pur in Sliske's voice caused Jahaan to shiver, but he remained resolute. However, he couldn’t help but be walked backwards as the man pressed against him. “Yes, when you invited me up to your little humble abode, I was rather honoured by the prospect.”

Jahaan didn’t notice how far he’d been led until his shoulders knocked against the thin wall behind him. He tried to keep focused on the weapon in his hand, on the grip he was maintaining, but the combination of alcohol and  _ that voice _ caused his head to spin. Therefore, he didn’t realise the mistake he’d made until Sliske slipped a hand beside his own, between the blade and his neck, and slammed it outwards, crashing the protruding bone into the sharp edge of the cabinet next to them. Howling in agony, Jahaan clutched his throbbing wrist, the dagger clattering to the floor, a secondary thought. Suddenly, he was pinned to the wall with a vice-like claw around his throat, choking the life out of him. Regardless of the body’s shape and appearance, Jahaan was undoubtedly looking into the haunting, familiar eyes of Sliske. The Mahjarrat’s eyes lifted in warning, a cold predatory glare accompanying his cruel tone. “Really Jahaan, if you’re going to slit my throat, at least have the courtesy to look me in the eyes as you do so.”

The grip around his throat tightened, causing any hope of a retort to emit itself as a strangled gurgle or, at best, a hiss of pain. Though he tried, he just didn’t have the strength to force Sliske back, and the thrashing of his legs only drew Sliske in closer as the Mahjarrat subdued his struggling with his own body weight. “Was that really the extent of your plan, hm? Or perhaps you considered luring me into your bed and making sure I never awoke?”

Fortunately, Sliske was too preoccupied with his smug rambling to notice Jahaan’s left hand stretch out and grab a china ornament from the shelf. Thus, the dull knock to the side of Sliske’s head came as rather a surprise. The Mahjarrat went cross-eyed as his brain registered the hit, and Jahaan was released. Desperate to capitalise, he took ahold of the long black hair Sliske had adopted and used it to whirl him face first into the glass cabinet. Shattering glass cried out, smaller fragments embedding themselves in Sliske’s stolen face as they mixed into the blood.

Not wasting a moment, Jahaan snapped to the other end of the room and picked his bow off its hanger, readying an arrow and leveling it at Sliske in a blink. While the Mahjarrat was still crumbled over the cabinet, Jahaan tried to steady his breathing from the shallow rasps he’d become used to, wanting to regain the normal flow of oxygen into his lungs. That, and the erratic pulsing of his heart was starting to make him feel sick.

“Turn around slowly,” he commanded, lowly, “or I’ll shoot.”

Sliske’s laugh was a grating scrape as he turned around, black blood trickling from his features, a crimson mask.

Jahaan tensed the bow, holding it steady. “Game’s over, Sliske. Drop the mask.”

Sniffing a laugh, Sliske’s expression grew dangerously wicked. “Very well. If you insist.”

With a click of his fingers and a slight transition of smoke, the borrowed persona Sliske had adopted changed into the depressingly familiar grey skin and purple robes of his Mahjarrat form.

Jahaan made sure to readjust his aim for the new height of his adversary, “Please, just give me a reason to put this between your eyes.”

“Relax, World Guardian,” the tone was too friendly for Jahaan’s liking - it didn't sit comfortably. “I'm not here to hurt you.”

Jahaan sniffed “I find that hard to believe.”

“Why would I hurt you?” there was an unfamiliar light in Sliske’s glowing yellow iris’. “Darling, my act is dead without you…” he carefully dabbed at the blood on his face with the back of his hand. “So, the chance for civil conversation has past then, I presume?”

“Don’t you think we had enough ‘chit-chat’ at the bar?” Jahaan’s tone was dangerously neutral, the hold on his bow steady and firm.

Chuckling hollowly, Sliske stretched out the kinks in his shoulders. “Congratulations for catching me off-guard. That’s not an easy thing for someone to do.”

“You’re not as good an actor as you think you are,” Jahaan spat, more venom in his words than he’d intended. Alcohol had a bad habit of adding kindling to his fiery temper. “So what was  _ your  _ plan? Were you really going to go along with all… all this?!”

“You mean, would I have become intimate with you?” Sliske raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Is that so wrong?”

“You disgusting, sick, perverted  _ bastard _ \- of course it’s wrong!” Jahaan was trembling ever so slightly, and he prayed Sliske wouldn’t notice.

Tilting his head to one side, Sliske innocently asked, “Why?”

“Because-!” Jahaan began before he ever had a response. “It’s… deceiving! That’s not your skin!”

Raising his eyebrows, Sliske knew he’d given Jahaan enough rope to hang himself as he replied, “So you’d rather it be my form?”

The heat in Jahaan’s cheeks might as well have signed him a mockery death sentence. “That’s not… why did you even try?!”

Shrugging, Sliske replied, “I was under the impression you humans love intimacy. Your friend Ozan certainly does. I must say, it is one of the many perks of the human body, one Mahjarrat aren’t partial to, unfortunately.”

Admittedly, this curiosity caused Jahaan to falter, but he still kept a tense hold in the bowstring. “Wait, what?”

“We don’t mate how humans do,” Sliske explained, casually, as if there wasn't an arrow targeting the crystal between his eyes. “We aren’t built for it. Mahjarrat reproduction is vastly different. How Lucien ever conceived with a human woman still baffles me to this day…”

This conversation was taking a radically unexpected turn, before Jahaan remembered that he was there to kill Sliske, not discuss biology.

“Irrelevant,” he asserted. “I don’t care if you’re disguised as Romeo or Juliet themselves - you stay the FUCK away from my love life.”

“And what love life, pray tell?” Sliske taunted, his knowing laugh cutting Jahaan deeply. “Am I so wrong in saying that you’ve never even been with another person?”

“So what?” Jahaan spat. “That's my business, not yours.”

“Oh, but your business  _ is  _ my business,” Sliske taunted, knowingly, “And remember, I know you better than you know yourself… the colour of your cheeks is an  _ adorable  _ shade on you, Janny.”

That didn’t help matters for Jahaan - he gulped.

Straightening up, Sliske’s smile evaporated and his face suddenly darkened. “Now, are you going to kill me, or can I sit down? My face hurts, and I’m sure your arm is getting tired.”

Regarding Sliske carefully, Jahaan’s throat became heavy. In all honesty, yes, his arm was getting tired, and so was he. Oh gosh, was he tired.

_ Whiskey had been a mistake, _ he thought to himself, bitterly.  _ Always takes it out of me... _

Hesitantly, he began to relax the string, waiting for Sliske’s next move. When the Mahjarrat made none, Jahaan edged towards the doorway and, with a nod of his head, motioned for Sliske to take a seat on the edge of the bed. Despite the string being lose, Jahaan refused to let go of the bow completely.

“How did you know it was me, anyway?” Sliske inquired, curiously.

Lightly tapping the space between his eyes, Jahaan replied, “Your brother.”

Sliske seemed to understand, smiling with disappointed acceptance. “All good things must come to an end, I suppose. I must say though, your little dance with Ozan back in Seers Village was rather something. I believe you scared the poor man half to death.”

Jahaan’s eyes widened. “So you WERE there!”

“Indeed I was,” Sliske confirmed, smugly. “I had a grand view of the performance. I all but called for an encore.”

Jahaan shot him a deadly look. “You’re not really giving yourself a reason to live, you know.”

“Oh, but you’re reason enough!” Sliske cheered, a wry grin cracking into his features, mocking and innocent all at once. “You’re the most fun I’ve had in years, Janny.”

Jahaan shot him a glare. “Don't call me Janny.”

“Why not? It's endearing.”

“Is it? Then perhaps I should go about calling you Sissy?”

Sliske clapped his hands together. “There you go! Now you're getting into the spirit of it.”

Rolling his eyes, Jahaan rubbed his temples, really wishing he could lie down before he fell down. “Just… leave, Sliske. I don’t want anymore of your games. No shapeshifting to get under my skin. You’ve had your fun.”

Sighing, Sliske replied, “I suppose this little game has run its course, especially now that you’ve found out how to cheat. Very well, I’ll just have to find some other way to entertain myself. Oh, that reminds me…”

Carefully, Sliske removed a sealed and stamped envelope from inside his robe, and held it out to Jahaan, who was in no rush to take it. Groaning, he held it out further and insisted, “It’s from Azzy. I told him I’d fetch you. See? Purpose for my visit after all.”

Hesitantly, Jahaan snatched it out of the Mahjarrat’s grasp and flinched backwards. “What do you mean, ‘fetch me’?”

Shrugging, Sliske replied, “How should I know? I’m just the messenger, and you almost shot me for my efforts.”

Sliske standing up from the edge of the bed caused Jahaan to falter ever so slightly, and he fumbled for his bow, which only caused Sliske to chuckle. “Is this the effect I have on you?”

The tone he used made Jahaan’s skin crawl, but he masked it with a nonchalant hand on his hip. “If you’re quite done, I’m tired. We drank half the bar, and I’ll bet Mahjarrat don’t even get hangovers. So, if you could please fuck off, I’d much appreciate it.”

Laughing sharply, Sliske flashed his teeth. “Well, since you put it so politely, I guess I should get going. Directing a war of the gods requires a lot of attention, you know…”

Sliske looked as if he was going to cast a spell, but then he stopped, and looked pointedly at Jahaan. “You know, if you weren’t so stubbornly hostile, you and I would make a good team.”

Jahaan opened his mouth to respond, but didn’t quite know how.

Then, with a cackle that faded away as he did, Sliske vanished from the room in a crack of purple energy.

Letting out a pent up exhale he’d been holding in for gods knew how long, Jahaan noticed he was still shaking, squirmish in his own skin. Scattering his bow and arrow to the floor, Jahaan stumbled over to the bed and collapsed on the top sheet, asleep within seconds of hitting the mattress before he could realise how alone he now felt.

The letter from Azzanadra remained unopened on the duvet beside him until the next morning.

**Author's Note:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


End file.
